


What Do You Feel?

by alicekittridge



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person, Present Tense, Sexual Content, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 09:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18091763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/pseuds/alicekittridge
Summary: It's safe to admit it here, and no one will ever know.





	What Do You Feel?

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a few little promos from season 2. I broke my promise of not writing anything new but when have we writers ever been good at keeping our promises? 
> 
> Please welcome the first fic I've ever told from Eve's POV written in second person.

“What do you feel?” Carolyn had asked you once, a series of the same question that was asked in much the same context but always had different meanings. Your answers varied. Some required explanation while the most popular answer, when the question was about Villanelle, was, “Nothing.”

            But, as you walk through another hotel door and into another luxurious room and into a space that she’s made all her own, there isn’t nothing. There is everything. Fear, nervousness, fascination, desire. So much desire. She’s lounging on the bed, scrolling through something on a rose-gold MacBook Air, the display of the screen casting light on her face, sharpening her already sharp features into something softly feral. Her hair is wet and stringy and her clothes are still expensive but comfortable. What butterflies there were in your stomach multiply at the thought of the chaos she’d probably emerged from just half an hour before you got here.

            Why, you wonder, shedding your coat and purse onto the floor, had you always told Carolyn that you felt nothing? You stand still for a moment, hands clasped in front of you, and stutter, “I-I didn’t bring anything.”

            “It’s fine,” Villanelle says, shutting her laptop, sliding easily from the bed and striding to you. She reaches out, tucks a half-wet strand of hair behind your ear. “Just you is enough.” There’s a sliver of wrist revealed by her sweater and you smell the light mint of the hotel’s soap on her skin. You close your eyes, almost leaning into the touch. Her fingers trail lightly across your cheek, trace the shell of your ear, your mouth. You think you tell Carolyn you feel nothing because it’s easier to deny rather than face the truth, a train wreck in of itself. Because what sort of person are you, feeling something for someone like her?

            “Where were you?” you ask. She’s pulling you closer by the hips, leaning in to press her lips to yours. You accept them, put your hands on her warm, sturdy shoulders, kiss back. There was a time when you thought kissing her would be like tasting death on her lips but that was before you were reminded, painfully, that she was still human; that her mouth only tasted like her earthy lipstick and was incredibly soft, and full and eager.

            “Working,” she replies, her lips hungrier now, working their way over your neck while her fingers undo your pants. You know by now that the quicker her movements are when she sees you, the more unsatisfactory the kill was. “Do you really want to stand up for this?”

            You sit on the bed, her spot still warm, watch her pull her sweater over her head. There’s a new bruise on her shoulder and another on her right hip. You trace them when she’s astride your lap, new evidence of her work, black and blue theories of the violence involved. You press your lips to the one on her shoulder. There’s still so much you desire to know about her, these things she won’t tell you, things you can only guess at. You’ve tried to ask, before, but were always met with stony silence.

            “Let me see you, Eve,” she says, slipping off your lap, falling to her knees on the floor so that her face is level with the tops of your thighs and the edge of the bed. She’s prim, alert, her focus magnetic but underneath erratic, barely held in check. Is it ever, around you? Is yours ever, around her? Let you just tell Carolyn you feel like you’re losing your mind when it comes to her because you want to go deeper into her.

            You take your clothes off and it feels a lot like shedding boundaries. Her hands and lips are on you in seconds, taking but giving; she drags you closer, kisses your thighs until your chest is properly heaving. And how can you tell anyone that when Villanelle is kissing between your thighs and your hands are in her hair that it feels like she’s announcing her devotion?

            “I think she’s… devoted to me,” you’d say, to a meeting room full of people, or to Kenny or to Elena or to Carolyn, and then have to explain the reasoning, what makes you _feel_ that way and you’d be transported back to now, her mouth on you, her fingers curling inside you, her pleasured sounds in response to yours.

            “Do you feel anything about her at all, Eve?” would be the next question, asked from several mouths.

            “Yes,” you moan, pushing Villanelle impossibly closer to you. “Yes…”

            It’s safe to admit it here, and no one will ever know.


End file.
